The Ritual
by Yesilian
Summary: There is a thing Sherlock and John do on every 28th. Come hell or high water or an important and dangerous undercover case, their little ritual of love is vital to them.


This is part of a much longer story that's been in my head for ages. But, with all the things already in there, I have to face the truth that this story will never see the light of day. So here, my favourite part of what I have already written. Enjoy.

* * *

"John, wake up!"

"Wuh?" It was dark and quiet. The windowless room they had put him in, nothing more than a closet really, made sure you couldn't see your own hand in front of your face. Light wasn't necessary to let John know where Sherlock was. He was pressed up right beside him on the small single bed.

"You doing?" he croaked. He could feel Sherlock twist and turn, the thin blanket they had given him that did almost nothing to keep him warm picked up to allow Sherlock beneath, could feel him shift closer and cross his arms behind his back, his own face pressed into the crook of the other man's neck. It was warm, and very comfortable. A perfect little nest for someone who was just roused from sleep.

"Shhh," Sherlock shushed directly into his ear. To John it sounded very loud but as his brain came slowly online he knew that it was practically inaudible to anyone else. "It's the 28th." It wasn't much of an explanation, but to John it was all he needed to know.

A wave of gratefulness washed through him and he moved his arms around the taller man's waist and gave a little squeeze. He and Sherlock had a ritual and if now was any indication, nothing could stop them from going through it. Not even when they were undercover, in a money laundering ring, and the fact that they knew each other would mean their certain death.

"You can't be seen here." It wasn't what was on his mind, but it was what he said.

"No, I can't be _heard_ here. Nobody ever comes in here while you're supposed to be sleeping. But they might run around outside and hear you talking, so say what you need to say and be quiet about it and let me go back to my own bed before we get caught." The gentle way Sherlock's right index finger drew little triangles onto John's shoulder weakened the ire of his tone considerably.

"Git," John said fondly.

"Considering what you're about to say next that is more insulting to your intelligence than to mine," Sherlock retorted. John chuckled quietly into his neck.

"You're a great, big idiot," he said.

"But..." Sherlock elongated the word.

"But I love you." Sherlock fell quiet. Some time passed between them while both waited for something that didn't come. At last Sherlock found his voice.

"That's it?" he asked, incredulously.

"Yep." Sherlock gave it another minute, silently prompting the man to elaborate.

"No 'You're the most important person, thing or otherwise in my life'?" he said growing impatient.

"You are," was the simple reply, mumbled against the skin of his throat and tickling.

"Hmpf."

"Sherlock, you know the speech. You said it yourself, we have to be quiet and I'm quite sleepy, actually." John didn't receive a reply. If anything, the hug he was currently part of, grew a little colder if not less strong.

"What if I die tomorrow?" Sherlock asked at last.

"Sherlock." John could lay a thousand different meanings into the name, had made a language of his own out of a single word, and this time it was a warning.

"It's a real possibility, with the way this case is going. I'm just saying. Would you really want me to die doubting your feelings for me? Because that's what I'm doing right now, doubting you."

John heaved a big sigh of exasperation. It was too late, or too early, depending on how you viewed it, for this.

"Sherlock Holmes. I need you to know that you are the most important person, thing or otherwise in my life and that there has never been a moment, nor will there likely ever be, when I have doubted you. I have always believed in you and your abilities. You make me proud just knowing you, which doesn't mean that your feats are any less impressive. You are the most brilliant, amazing man" here Sherlock gave a tiny cough, "...person I know and I am honoured to be called your friend. I love you and I want there to be no doubt as to what you've come to mean to me."

"Which is?" Sherlock prompted. John smiled against his throat.

"The world," he said sincerely yet indulgently.

The whole conversation had been uttered in whispers, ghosts of words against one man's throat and directly into another's ear barely more than warm breaths. They were intimate enough in meaning, but the way they were delivered increased the notion tenfold. Entangled into each other as they lay on a tiny twin bed there was still enough space left on it for a third person to fit beside them. Space, time nor place were of any consequence, important only that they were here, together, repeating the words they said to one another every month on the 28th, the anniversary of Sherlock's return from the dead. Sherlock leaned impossibly closer.

"I love you as well." His lips formed the words against John's ear. He didn't say more. Sherlock was a genius in every way but when it came to sentiment. Normally they would be sitting opposite each other in an adequately lit restaurant and he'd let his eyes say what his words lacked. But this time, in the pitch darkness, there was no way to let his body language speak and so he voiced his feelings in the simplest way he knew how. It was the first time he had said it like this and John took notice. He shuddered a little in his arms and drew a deep breath.

"Thank you," he whispered back. Hearing Sherlock express his feelings were mutual was never anything but awe-inducing and it would take John many more months than had already passed to get used to it. As it was, it still came as a surprise.

"Let me," Sherlock said next and ducked his head. He planted his lips to John's, moved them tentatively and softly. To his surprise John didn't hesitate one moment before he kissed back. Mouths opened and lips slid lazily against each other, teeth just nibbled on lips and breathing grew ragged. They broke the kiss before the need for air became too urgent, quietly calming their breathing back to normal. It was then that Sherlock noticed a gentle poke to his thigh where it was rested between John's.

"Oh, John," he chuckled noiselessly, burying his lips into the crown of the other man's head.

"Shut up!" came a little voice, embarrassment barely there. "It's a natural reaction." Sherlock wasn't embarrassed so he didn't see a need to be so himself. He lay in a bed, pressed to another warm body, exchanging vows of love and snogging, what was his body supposed to think was going on?

To describe the nature of their relationship was difficult. They shared a love that was pure and innocent at its core. It was fuelled by mutual affection and adoration, attraction however played little part in it. The kisses they had shared in the past could be counted on one hand, each employed as a means of communication when words had failed them. That wasn't to say that they never expressed their love through physicality, in fact they had grown considerably more tactile over the last months. It just wasn't as important to them. They enjoyed it, an added bonus to their new-found closeness, but not a necessity.

"Go to sleep," Sherlock said after a minute of silence.

"What about you?"

"I'll stay for a while. Don't worry," he said before John could say anything. "I'll be gone before they'll get up. I just want to stay here a little longer." It was a rare confession and John allowed it because of that. He trusted Sherlock wouldn't fall asleep and if he was quite honest with himself he rather enjoyed their little nest.

* * *

"Do we have sex now?" Sherlock had asked after the first iteration of what would become a monthly ritual for them. They had just exchanged their confessions, nervously, barely daring to look at each other.

"Is that what you want?" John had asked instead of answering. He wasn't sure if it was what he wanted. He had to confess he wasn't opposed to it and if Sherlock wanted to take their relationship further, then John would follow where Sherlock led. But Sherlock thought about the question too long, uncertain and unsure.

"It's okay, we don't have to. I am still going to get married in a few weeks. Love doesn't equal sex, you know," he had said. Sherlock seemed at once both relieved and disappointed. It had shown John how very much not ready he was for a physical relationship.

"You won't come back then?" Sherlock had asked with down-cast eyes. John had reached for his hand, squeezing it gently.

"I am never going to leave you."

"But you're still marrying her."

"Yes."

"Why?" The answer was complicated and he couldn't provide it immediately.

"Ah. You love me, but you love her more." To that he replied instantaneously.

"No. You're wrong. Love isn't quantifiable. I don't love any one of you more than the other."

"But you choose her."

"Sherlock..." how could he explain what he felt? But thankfully he didn't need to, Sherlock could read the answer in his face.

"Ah. You didn't. You want to have a bit of a normal life."

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing."

"It is. Married life doesn't suit you, John." John knew Sherlock and knew he was hiding hurt.

"Sherlock, please," he implored. John had meant what he had said: Sherlock was the most important person in his life. He didn't like it, he hated himself for the fact that he was still going to marry somebody else, knowing full well she would always only be second row and dragging her along for something that could only end in pain one way or the other.

"Tell me to call the wedding off and I'll do it," he said earnestly. Sherlock looked at him for a long while and eventually, he shook his head.

"No," he whispered. "She's good for you."

They kissed for the first time that night. A chaste kiss without any heat and containing, it seemed, all the love in the world. They just held each other tight and kissed. When they broke apart they rested their foreheads against each other and just relished in their shared warmth.

* * *

John woke again some hours later to gentle caressing. He was still very tired when he opened his eyes and just barely saw Sherlock's face inches from his in what little light shone through the slid under the door.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said just as tenderly as his hand stroked John's cheek. "But I'm leaving now and I know how much you hate to wake up alone. So, bye." He pressed a kiss to John's forehead and untangled himself before slipping out of the bed and the room. It felt immediately colder. John wasn't even sure if he hadn't just dreamt the whole episode, but he was glad for being woken up. He missed Sherlock's presence at once, he really did. But the man was right, he would have loathed to wake up later without him there. How he knew that, John had no idea. But he never had when it came to Sherlock's unique knowledge about John.


End file.
